This morning I took the metro to work. It was packed as usual. I greeted everyone at and sat down at my desk. It was a normal Monday — as if nothing had happened this weekend.

I will begin my account of what happened in Paris on the night of November 13 by saying that I was safe and sound. I was busy having a fabulous night in a museum just outside of Paris. As we browsed the artwork, my friend casually mentioned that there had been a shooting in the city. Though we weren’t too worried, I decided to check my phone for updates anyway. I had received several messages from concerned friends. Not being able to find useful information online, I called my boyfriend and had him give me live TV updates. “18 dead near Republique,” we were informed that the museum was closing. “Bombing at Stade de France,” as we headed downstairs. “Hostages held at Le Bataclan,” as we collected our coats, and finally realized the gravity of the situation. We lived on the same side of the Seine — we didn’t want to go home. With this in mind, my friend called up someone she knew nearby who agreed to take us all in.

Inside that one-bedroom apartment, we were eight. We did not know each other well, but still sat together and watched the news until 3 a.m. We had no answers to the messages on our phones. We were all scared and unsure of what would happen.

The next morning, the feeling of uncertainty remained. Could we leave? Outside the window, we saw life on the street and stores were open. It still felt strange. At 4 p.m., we decided it was finally time to go home. We walked past a ghost-like Eiffel Tower, only to get on a metro that was surprisingly full. At my stop, I saw very busy streets. It still felt strange.

That night, I felt a confusing jumble of emotions. I was sad, optimistic, angry, relieved and nervous all at the same time. I was grieving for the city that I had slowly fallen in love with, the city that I had just watched be brutally attacked.

The next morning, I looked outside my window and saw a beautiful blue sky. I couldn’t spend my whole day locked up out of fear. I met up with a friend and we walked together to Le Bataclan. It seemed there were even more people on the streets than usual on a Sunday afternoon. The huge crowd at the site of the shooting made me nervous, but I knew I had to face it. I lit a candle to pay my respects and headed straight home.

I thought about the amount of people I saw on the street and how nervous I felt. As I reflected on whether the fear I felt inside was justified, my flatmate ran to tell me that more attacks had happened at the Republique. It felt impossible, so I checked online for more information and it turned out to be a false alarm. The crowds at the Republique had heard a noise and begun to panic, inciting fears of another attack. At this point, it was clear to me that everyone was on edge.

We go out into the street to show our strength. Our way of protesting is by continuing to live our lives. Paris is still Paris because we will still sit in cafes and people-watch, carry baguettes under our arms, sip on red wine by the Seine and celebrate all the beautiful things that make this city what it is. We will continue to do this, even if we are afraid, and that is where our true strength lies. Despite the fear, life goes on in the city of lights.

Isabella Benyaoun is a junior majoring in business administration who is studying abroad in Paris, France